A Man, a Fall, and a Miracle

Festival holidays are among life’s quiet luxuries, and when four of them fall together over a long weekend, it feels nothing short of a divine gift. They are not merely breaks from work, but small pockets of time where memories form unannounced. Some of these memories settle gently in the mind, and one such memory remains etched clearly in mine.

It occurred many years ago during an extended festival weekend and subtly altered the way I look at faith, people, and miracles.

At the time, I was working as a branch manager in a private company. Like most managers, I was professionally drained and personally hopeful, hopeful of just one thing- a long holiday. The four-day Ayudha Pooja break, Saraswati Pooja as it is popularly known in Tamil Nadu, marked on the calendar felt like an oasis in a bleak desert.

Our office was a small branch with only a handful of employees. Everyone except me had planned their holidays weeks in advance. Trains were booked, villages informed, sweets ordered. Since Saraswati Pooja fell on a Thursday, someone sensibly suggested that inviting the Goddess a day earlier would still bring her blessings. After all, we believed that even the gods had learned to accommodate modern schedules.

By Wednesday afternoon, the office emptied out as early birds departed for their destinations. After finishing a few pending emails, I locked up the office and began my daily eighteen-kilometer motorcycle ride home.

Usually, that ride felt like daily penance. Traffic, noise, chaos, all competing for attention. But that day was different. The roads were unexpectedly peaceful. Most people had already fled the city.

As I rode on, I felt an unusual surge of relief, almost like an oxygen boost. Fewer vehicles, no frantic traffic, and the conspicuous absence of reckless auto-rickshaws made the journey feel almost divine for a commuter like me, one who battled these odds every day.

To save time, I took my usual shortcut through an industrial area. The place was nearly deserted. Small factories were shut, and workers gone. Tall trees lined the narrow road, their branches blocking the fading evening light.

About halfway through this unusually pleasant ride, I noticed a weary elderly man cycling some distance ahead. He appeared unsteady, as if the road itself were shifting beneath him. I slowed instinctively. Suddenly, the bicycle veered off the tar road into the muddy edge. The man lost balance and fell. A bulky object rolled off the carrier behind his cycle and vanished into the grass.

I parked my bike and rushed to help. He lay flat on his back, staring blankly at the sky, perhaps trying to understand how the evening had betrayed him.

“Are you badly hurt?” I asked.

“Hmm… road… er… down… slipped…” he muttered, the words colliding with one another.

I helped him sit up and offered some water. He drank slowly, his face still vacant.

It wasn’t difficult to understand what had happened. Alcohol had reached the handlebars before he did.

He briefly shared his story. He worked as a helper in a nearby vegetarian restaurant. Once reasonably well-to-do, business failures and bad habits had ruined everything. That evening, a granite pestle (a smooth, cylindrical granite piece with a rounded top) from a wet-grinding machine had broken, and he was taking it for repair. The owner wanted it fixed before the holidays, and that urgency had led to this unscheduled landing.

We searched for the fallen part. With poor light and thick grass, he poked around with his foot, lost balance again, and fell a second time, this time with more drama than damage.

Finally, exhausted and embarrassed, he said, “I’ll come back in the morning, sir, when it’s bright.”

He mounted his bicycle with great effort and disappeared down the road, swaying gently like a shadow arguing with gravity.

As I watched him fade away, a nearby factory watchman approached, having witnessed the entire episode. He shared a few details. The cyclist, he said, once ran his own business and lived comfortably. Alcohol had destroyed everything, his finances, his family, his dignity. Now he survived on a meager salary and free meals at the restaurant where he worked.

That night, I reflected briefly on the incident before fatigue took over.

The four-day holiday passed quickly. On Monday morning, I was back on my motorcycle, taking the same shortcut to work. Near the same spot, I noticed a small crowd gathered under a sparsely grown banyan tree. There was excitement in the air. People stood with folded hands, curiosity, and unquestioning belief.

Someone explained, “A self-manifested Shiva Lingam has appeared near the bushes.”

I nodded, unsure whether to question geography, geology, or theology, and rode on.

That evening, curiosity drew me back on my return journey. The same spot now wore a festive look. Lights, flowers, chants. A small shrine had already been erected. Devotion, it seemed, worked faster than government approvals.

As I stood watching, someone familiar distributed prasadam to the gathered crowd. When he reached me, I froze.

It was the cyclist.

Clean, calm, sacred ash across his forehead, and a wide, radiant smile, he looked like a man who had negotiated peace with life. Handing me the prasadam, he said, “Sir, this is a powerful God, a self-manifested Shiva Lingam. A senior yogi has declared that good things will happen here, and I have been entrusted with caring for this shrine.”

I wondered how a small shift in circumstance, and a sudden sense of purpose, could transform an entire life. Renouncing his former self, he now stood as an unlikely embodiment of divinity.

In that moment, I did not know whether to bow before the idol under the tree or before the man standing in front of me.

I accepted the prasadam, smiled back, and thought to myself.

Sometimes, God does not arrive with thunder, lightning, or clouds of smoke.

Call it a miracle; He may even arrive… inebriated, on a bicycle.

Review: The author has deftly written an engaging storyline. Just as the title implies this story is about a man who has endured a series of failures in his life and an unexpected miracle that happens in his life. The narrative style of this story is laced with subtle humour. An articulate observation of the city of Chennai ahead of festival holidays is well described in the beginning of the story. The character of the narrator and his thoughts are written in a comprehensible manner. They say fortune favours the brave, but in this story, fortune favours a man because of gullible people. This story is sure to resonate with the readers about how superstition has a tight grasp around many people. In this light-hearted story the author has infused a message to ponder.